


It Started With Saying Sorry

by silvrhuntress



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Episode: s04e22 Lucifer Rising, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvrhuntress/pseuds/silvrhuntress





	It Started With Saying Sorry

Misha raised his gaze slowly, so slowly that Jensen felt it skitter over his body like light little touches, all uncertainty and doubt, as if Misha expected to be rebuffed for even that audacity. “We’ve been through much together, you and I, and I just wanted... to say, I’m sorry it ended like this.”

“Sorry.” Jensen raised his brows and Misha tilted his head just slightly, a subtle motion that prompted him to continue.

Clenching his fist, Jensen drew back and threw the punch _perfectly_ , skimming right past Misha’s cheek, trusting the camera angle to make it look real. Misha turned his head with it, unruffled, and Jensen turned away, clenching and unclenching his fist and trying not to let the disruption in the emotional tension spoil the scene. He’d protested the almost comedic edge to the action, but had been overruled. Misha had stayed out of the argument, perhaps deferring to Jensen’s longer standing with _Supernatural_ , but Jensen had seen the agreement in his eyes.

“It’s Armageddon, Cas. You need a bigger word than ‘sorry’,” Jensen demanded roughly, turning back to face Misha.

Their eyes locked immediately, as if they both knew exactly where to look and how to _connect_.

“Try to understand,” Misha said, carefully straddling a thin line between begging and commanding. His posture was softened only by his rumpled clothes. He raised his right arm, about to point, and said, “This is long foretold. This is your –”

Jensen snagged the cue and cut in, “Destiny?” so deftly that he knew the edit team wouldn’t have to polish it up. He shook his head, injecting an edge of sadness into his voice and expression. “Don’t give me that ‘holy’ crap. Destiny, God’s plan... It’s all a bunch of lies, you stupid son of a bitch! It’s just a way for your bosses to keep me and keep you in line,” he said, more in exasperation than in anger, pointing at himself, then at Misha.

He’d looked away for barely a fraction of a second, but Misha held his gaze unflinchingly, without any of the discomfort that anyone – even an actor – would feel, staring at someone for so long without a break. They’d been doing it for months now, this electric tension building between them, to the point where the directors were adjusting camera angles to capture it all.

“You know what’s real?” Jensen demanded after a beat. “People. Families. That’s real. And you’re gonna watch ’em all burn?”

“What is so worth saving?” Misha demanded, his words slow, voice raw. He took two quiet steps and closed the distance, getting right into Jensen’s personal space, his personality spilling over beyond the confines of his trench coat. “I see nothing but pain here. I see inside you,” he growled, his whole being focused on Jensen. “I see your guilt. Your anger. Confusion.” He drew the word out like the hard scratch of fingernails over skin, and pressed on without even waiting, without changing gears, the angry intensity in his voice at odds with the words in the script. “In Paradise, all is forgiven. You’ll be at peace.” Now he paused, just for an instant, before adding, “Even with Sam.”

Jensen let that settle for a moment, long enough for Misha to surrender the staring-duel to him – at least, this round. He considered, letting the camera see him turning the words over in his mind. He licked his lips and leaned in, tilting his head to match the angle of Misha’s, and said, “You can take your peace... and shove it up your lily white ass.”

And thank God none of the crew cracked up at that, because they were _there_ , riding high in the skins of their characters, Jensen wrapped up in Dean Winchester’s psyche so much that he could feel the complexity of Dean’s emotions at this singular moment in time. Misha-as-Castiel squinted, a twitch of muscles around brilliant blue eyes, and jerked his head barely enough for the cameras to even catch it, but somehow conveying Castiel’s lack of understanding.

Jensen dropped his voice, feeling his pulse crank up a notch. “’Cause I’ll take the pain and the guilt – I’ll even take Sam as-is – it’s a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in Paradise,” he snarled, sentences running together as much as he dared, because he was _not_ going to let them cut the scene and send them back to their marks – not when they were this fucking _perfect_.

Misha’s lips tightened and his eyes flickered. As he turned away, Jensen said, his voice intense, “This is simple, Cas. No more crap about being a good soldier...” He drew out the sound as he got even closer to Misha, stepping almost out of his camera angle, feet off his mark now but not caring, because this was _right_. “There is a right and there is a wrong here,” he enunciated powerfully, “and you know it.”

He grabbed hold of Misha, his right hand to Misha’s left shoulder, and turned him around, barking, “Look at me. You know it!”

Misha’s expression was fierce and desperate, furious and pleading, ripping right through Jensen and that Dean-corner of his mind, lighting the cameras up. The crew was silent, without even the paper shuffling and footfalls that drove the sound guys crazy.

Jensen licked his lips again and dropped his voice to a soft, raw sound that was just a notch louder than a whisper. “And you were gonna help me once, weren’t you? You were gonna warn me about all this, before they dragged you back to Bible camp. Help me. Now. Please,” he growled, using his pauses and rhythm to make it a command and not a plea, despite how the script should have run.

This time, Misha didn’t meet his eyes, staring instead at some fixed point in space, tension radiating off him in waves. “What would you have me do?”

Now, Jensen threw desperation into his voice and expression. “Get me to Sam – we can stop this before it’s too late.”

Misha’s breath came in a shorter, harsher rhythm. “I do that, we will all be hunted,” he said, looking back at Jensen only on the last word, brow furrowed, expression edged with fear. “We’ll all be killed,” he added, giving Jensen a very _human_ look that said he was crazy for even considering it.

Pleading even more now, Jensen said, “If there is anything worth dyin’ for... this is it.”

Misha stared at him almost a beat too long, and Jensen braced for the director’s intervention – But Misha shook his head, just at the edge of the timing, and looked down, pressing his lips tightly together.

Jensen let himself feel the stab of Dean’s disappointment. He shook his head, voice almost breaking. “You spineless... _soulless_ son of a bitch,” he said, turning his back, taking slow steps to his next mark. “What do you care about dying? You’re already dead,” he said over his shoulder, his voice laced with contempt and disgust. He looked at Misha’s face, seeing him staring stoically at the set wall, expressionless except for the faint crease between his brows. “We’re done.”

Jensen made it to his third mark, and right on cue, heard Misha’s voice, stoic and heartbroken all at once: “Dean –”

“We’re done,” he interrupted, holding for a three count, though he knew it could be fixed with a camera cut later, before he turned – and Misha was gone, completely out of sight.

Silence reigned for one brief moment, before Eric called, “Print that!” in a tone that was just professional enough to not quite disguise the absolute satisfaction – almost gloating – in his voice. The crew was always in top form when Kripke himself was directing, but this... Jensen felt it in his bones. It was _perfect_.

Flexing his shoulders, he shook off the Dean-persona and went to go find Misha. They had a fifteen minute break for setup before their next ‘green room’ scene, just enough time to plan how they were going to attack their next Dean-Castiel confrontation.

* * * * *

Jensen’s pacing footsteps were off and he knew it, but it seemed okay – at least, Kripke wasn’t saying anything. Misha was _gone_ – not in his trailer, not scavenging food, not anywhere that Jensen could find. He showed up ten seconds before filming, eyes glued to the floor, brow furrowed in concentration so deep that he completely missed one of the makeup assistants touching up his hair.

On a ten-count after they were rolling, Jensen went to the table and picked up one of the burgers. Just outside the camera angle, he felt Misha move up behind him, as if they were connected by some undefinable sixth sense. He held the prop burger too tight and tried not to betray himself by anticipating –

Misha’s hand clamped on his left shoulder, tight enough for it to be _real_ , and Jensen almost stumbled as Misha spun him around and against the wall that had been braced for the scene. For one shocked instant, Jensen lost control of his expression but must have reacted right, because Kripke just kept the cameras rolling, as he hit the wall, Misha’s hand fisted in his jacket against his left shoulder.

Misha’s hand clamped over his mouth, pressing hard enough that Jensen’s breath caught. For one breathless, timeless moment, they stayed there, bodies close enough that Jensen’s pulse skyrocketed. Their eyes locked and there was that spark again, lighting the air on fire with the barely-contained danger he brought to Castiel when he was in his full-on warrior-of-God glory.

Jensen rode it out, giving in to Misha despite his own greater experience in front of the camera. He was supposed to nod in a ‘Go on, kill me, you asshole’ sort of way when Misha drew the knife, but his nod came out not tentative, but trusting – silently saying ‘Do whatever you want’, as if in surrender.

His lips felt chilled when Misha finally pulled his hand away. He remembered to break eye-contact when Misha put the knife to his arm, though it was a near-miss. Focusing on his part as they’d blocked it out, he followed Misha’s gaze to the wall, looked up, and backpedaled, watching Misha smear the fake blood on the wall, scooping his hand into a bowl of the syrupy stuff held by an assistant kneeling just out of the camera line.

“Castiel!” Kurt barked, from the back corner of the room, and Jensen didn’t have to fake his surprise when he turned. “Would you mind explaining just what the hell you’re doing?” he demanded, walking toward them.

Misha slammed his gory hand into the middle of the finger painting and they all held position, Jensen squinting and shielding his eyes with folded arms as the effect lights snapped on, glaring through their eyelids. Kurt let out a yell and left the set, and Jensen felt a very ‘Dean’ satisfaction that the scene belonged to him and Misha once more.

“He won’t be gone long,” Misha said, his voice broken and rough with effort. They turned to face each other as though compelled by their own personal magnetic fields, Jensen looking at Misha, Misha looking at where Kurt had been. “We have to find Sam now.”

 _Line,_ Jensen thought, brain scrambling for an instant. “Where is he?” he finally asked as Misha’s eyes locked onto his, pupils tiny from the glare, making the blue all the more brilliant and captivating.

“I dunno. But I know who does,” Misha said, extending the knife. Jensen took it, looking down, as Misha continued, “We have to stop him, Dean, from killing Lilith.”

Jensen raised his eyes to meet Misha’s as he wrapped up the line. “But Lilith’s gonna break the final seal,” he said quickly, intensely.

“Lilith _is_ the final seal,” Misha said urgently, angrily, his eyes completely _owning_ Jensen with their ferocity. “She dies, the end begins.”

Jensen stared, trying to sneak just an edge of horror into his expression, without going overboard, staring into Misha’s gaze, letting his co-worker support him –

 _“Print!”_ Eric called, and Jensen grinned in triumph, knowing it was another perfect print. He turned to share the moment –

Misha was already going, sweeping off the set with quick, sure strides.

* * * * *

The trailer door swung gently on its hinges, closing almost all the way before Jensen ran the last six feet and slammed a palm against the light fiberglass. It bounced open and he took the steps two at a time, searching for Misha, finding him in the middle of the cramped space, tearing off Castiel’s trench coat, right hand and left arm still coated with sticky stage blood.

“Mish.”

He spun, blue eyes so wide the whites showed all the way around, like a trapped, feral beast. “What – Did they call us back?” he asked tightly, his voice still low and raspy.

Jensen pushed the door closed and shoved at the lock, not even trying to remember if he had to be back on set after fifteen or a longer break. The connection was still there, drawing him up the steps and into the narrow space between the coffee table and the TV. “No.”

Misha nodded stiffly, looking away, folding the coat with obsessive precision, as if it were the most important thing in the world. “Is everything all right?” he asked without turning around, laying the coat on a chair crowded into the corner between the far wall and the bathroom.

The tension was all over him, voice and shoulders and stance, even in the precise way his fingers brushed at the coat’s surface once before his hands vanished from sight.

Worried, Jensen said, “You tell me.”

Misha shrugged out of the suit jacket, almost fumbling in his haste, before he got control of it. “I’m fine,” he said tightly. “Just –” He made an indistinct, meaningless gesture before draping the suit jacket over the trench coat. “Two perfect takes in a row. Doesn’t happen often, does it?”

“No,” Jensen said, hearing not pride but a level of defensiveness that he’d never before heard from Misha. He was moving before he knew it, drawn close and into Misha’s personal space as if he belonged there – the way they’d been playing Dean and Cas since the beginning.

Misha’s shoulders, strangely visible without the armor of his suit jacket and trench, stiffened. “Jensen –” He stopped himself with a deep breath and turned on his heel, the motion graceful and easy and totally at odds with his stance – putting him a step farther away from where Jensen had stopped. “Did you need something?” His white shirt was stained a dirty brown at the left sleeve.

That was his cue to say ‘no’ and leave. He knew it just as well as if it had been scripted and blocked and planned.

But he wouldn’t accept that – not from Misha. Not from the guy who’d eased into the dynamic between Jared and Jensen – brothers on set, best friends outside, two against the world – so effortlessly that it was as if he’d _always_ been there.

He took another step closer, regaining the ground Misha had put between them. “Yeah,” he said, though he couldn’t define _what_ he needed, because he didn’t know what was going on inside Misha’s head. Not that he did at the best of times, really, but that was what made Misha so...

God, whatever he was. And Jensen didn’t know that answer, either.

“Jensen,” Misha said, and this time the word was a warning.

“What’s gotten into you, Mish?” He didn’t even bother trying to hide the worry in his tone. He didn’t stop until he had Misha backed into the wall next to the chair, and God, whatever it was had Misha rattled enough that he actually flinched in surprise when his shoulders found the corner.

Tension etched little lines around Misha’s eyes. “Nothing. That –” He gestured again, off in the vague direction of the set. “It takes a lot of energy.”

Jensen snorted at the blatant lie. “We were _perfect_. Don’t tell me you’re not practically high off it, ’cause I saw it in your eyes.”

He had... just like he saw the flicker of fear there now, where before he’d always seen nothing but confidence and self-assurance, no matter how weird things got on set, at parties, even at the conventions where he had his own fucking _minions_ , for God’s sake.

He should have backed off, given Misha space, but he crowded close, one hand on the wall right over his shoulder. “Talk to me, Mish.”

Misha closed his eyes, surrendering their staring duel without even putting up any sort of a fight, which was worrying and infuriating all at once. “Jensen –”

Without any conscious thought at all, Jensen clapped a hand over Misha’s mouth, exactly as had happened not ten minutes earlier, roles reversed. Misha’s blue eyes flew open, suddenly dark and wide with shock and something else that Jensen couldn’t read – yet. But he wasn’t going anywhere until he could.

“I didn’t come here to listen to you saying my name, Mish,” he said quietly.

Breath whispered over the back of Jensen’s hand, a sharp exhale through Misha’s nostrils, tense and shaky. Misha’s pulse jumped under his thumb and his eyes hooded, lashes lowering just enough to obscure Jensen’s clear view of the vivid blue rings around pupils gone wide and pitch black.

Jensen pushed up with his hand, needing to see what Misha was trying to hide, pressing so close that their bodies were touching from knees to chests, and –

 _Fuck._

There was no hiding Misha’s physical response under the thin wool suit, not through the jeans that Jensen wore. And there was even less chance of Jensen hiding the way it just lit his blood on fire, all the electric tension returning between them, ten times stronger, a hundred times, even... dizzying in its power. All the pieces fell into place, confusion washed away under the blinding purity of _need_.

But he hadn’t gotten this far in life by following his impulses. He wasn’t Dean Winchester, reckless and impulsive and brave to the point of suicidal. He’d planned everything, gone after his goals with a ferocity that wouldn’t be stopped, pursued the roles he wanted in a single-minded way that only Jared seemed to understand.

And nowhere in that plan was there room for _this_ – not with a co-worker, and a _male_ co-worker at that, because _this_ whatever it was between them, all tension and fire and the black pit of the unknown, gave them power that they could harness and use in front of the cameras. That’s where they’d been getting it all along. But once they shined a light down into that pit, there was no telling what they’d find, what would come crawling out to wreck them both.

He slowly let his hand drop, following the curve of Misha’s jaw, rasping over the shadow of his beard. He damn near did it – damn near found the strength to break away – when Misha’s lips parted, drawing a faint breath before he licked across his bottom lip, a tiny motion that felt unconscious, though before tonight, Jensen would’ve said Misha did _nothing_ that wasn’t completely planned.

It hit him then that Misha would be able to _taste_ him on his lips, a remnant of that touch, and he shivered, catching himself staring.

Misha inhaled. Started to exhale, a harsh, “Jen–” as far has he got before Jensen silenced him, fingers digging against his throat, pressing up into his jaw. Misha made a faint sound, too soft to be a moan, too broken to be a gasp, and Jensen didn’t even try to stop, his brain just shifting Misha from ‘co-worker’ to _want_ without any thought of repercussions at all – not now, with this heat and hard need trapped between them, in the private silence of Misha’s trailer.

It was a kiss only because it involved lips and tongues and teeth, but in truth it was a claiming, Jensen yielding nothing, demanding that Misha stop fighting, drop his defenses, surrender himself entirely. After a shocked instant, his whole body tensing, Misha let out a moan that was ripped from deep inside his chest, parting his lips, letting his mouth fall open, arching his back to press against Jensen’s body in a desperate, silent plea.

As Misha came apart, trapped against the wall, Jensen’s only thought was _fuck, yes_. He had vague thoughts of the little bedroom he knew was at the back of the trailer, the couch that was conveniently close by, and dismissed them all as too fucking far away. His hands tore at Misha’s belt and slacks and the bottom buttons of his shirt as his tongue explored, demanded, tasting Misha and _owning_ him, just as Misha had done to Jensen earlier, on the set, in character.

Misha’s hands went to Jensen’s belt and he smacked them away, grabbing his gory right hand and slamming it against the wall right near the corner, pinning it over his head. His reward was a gasp and a moan and a full-body shudder that made him want to explore that more, one day, after this edge was gone and he’d asserted himself.

“This is why you ran earlier,” he accused, his voice so rough and raw that he didn’t even recognize it, trapped somewhere between his voice and the one he used for Dean, as if he and Mish were in a contest to see who could growl the lowest, who could be more alpha male.

Misha’s only answer was a whispered, _“Fuck,”_ as Jensen shoved down his slacks and underwear.

Satisfaction curled through Jensen’s gut and his left hand clenched tight around Misha’s wrist. He brought his other hand up, dragging it the length of Misha’s cock, closing his eyes and savoring the desperate sounds Misha was making for him. “Yeah, Mish,” he whispered, fingers curling over silken skin. “That’s a promise. All damn night.”


End file.
